A Walk With Mr. Warner

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

WHAT proved to be the last of many good walks and talks with Mr. Warner was made especially memorable by so concise an account of his method of writing in general, and of his Winter on the Nile in particular, that it seems selfish not to attempt to share the pleasure received with the many loving admirers of his charming work.

It was during the last mile of a sevenmile tramp through the brilliant autumn foliage that lends a brief glory to every New England village; he had been talking of the joys of travel, and the joys of getting home again; the pleasure of prowling about in search of “ things, ” and the final unpacking and bestowal of foreign treasures in the home they were to adorn, pausing from time to time, and leaning on his cane, to admire a yellow birch reflected in the blue lake, a flaming maple, or the scarlet cranberries in the dark purple bog. Suddenly he turned the conversation, and for the very first time during a long acquaintance, to his own way of working, and to his manner of strengthening the active memory required in his methods of writing.

I felt strongly at the time that it was meant, indirectly, to serve as a friendly, helpful lesson, and knowing now how near the end then was, I am confirmed in the thought that, in his simple, generous way, he meant to make the passing hour of more than ordinary value to one who had studied and cared for his work and had ventured to tell him so.

“I have always made a practice of remembering everything I listen to,” he said. “Never mind how long the sermon, nor how great the number of heads into which it was divided, even as a boy I would follow every word, and at the close could write a synopsis of the whole discourse. It is only a question of habit. The same was true in the case of the most trivial conversation.” And is this not a key to the secret of one of Mr. Warner’s greatest charms? Was it not really his keen, warm sympathy with all that was human which led him to listen to, to pay close heed to, the slightest expression of another’s inner life?

“At one time,” he continued, stopping short in his walk and driving his cane deep into the ground, as if the better to recall a pleasing vision of his youth, “I wrote newspaper reports of a whole course of lectures, taking no notes at the time. These reports were written in every case some days after the lectures were delivered, and it so chanced that they proved to be, in the course of time, of value to the man who had delivered the original lectures. And this was done with no conscious effort, but was the result of constant, unremitting concentration of thought.

“My book on the Nile was written at Venice, under ideal conditions for work, and some months after the journey was made, in a big, empty room, overlooking the Grand Canal. It was reached by several flights of marble stairs, guarded by an iron grating on the first floor, which flew open every morning on my ringing the bell. No one appeared except for a brief monthly settling of the terms of the lease, and thus the feeling of solitude was complete during the morning hours. The room was simply furnished with all that one needs, — a table, a chair, pen, ink, and paper, and — the view up and down the Canal! I had a tiny book of brief notes taken during the journey up the Nile, one book of reference, and a guidebook, — nothing more. As I wrote, all the sayings of our delightful dragoman came back to me, with the very intonations of his voice. The lights, the atmosphere, the daily life of the river and the desert, the visits to the temples, all were vividly present again to my mind’s eye, as if freshly drawn up from some well of memory.” “And the novels? Yes. Many of the scenes are literally true to life, word for word, as experienced by actual workers and players in all classes of society.”

The chilly close of a gray autumn afternoon, lit only by the waning lights of a crimson sunset, — the regretful arrangements for taking an early train the next morning because of an appointment with some “beginner,” whose MSS. he had promised to read and pass judgment upon, — the pleasantly prompt letter received the day after his return home, full of quiet fun and plans for more work, graceful words of thanks for a hospitality we had felt it an honor and privilege to offer; — would that all last memories might prove equally precious and satisfying!